Admitting Impediments
by KADH
Summary: As they try to rebuild their life together, Grissom and Sara deal with the whys of her leaving.
1. One

**Admitting Impediments**

As they try to rebuild their life together, Grissom and Sara deal with the real whys of her leaving.

_Part of the Time series. Follows "The Good Fight," "Closing Arguments" and "Reconciliation" and takes places post season eight, circa the end of January 2009._

For anyone who has ever been broken...

And for those who dared to risk and stay and love anyway...

**One**

Grissom and Sara had once again taken up residency on the room's lone sofa when her phone began wailing insistently, startling them both from their quiet consumption of late morning coffee.

Sara hurriedly went to collect it. As she stared down at the screen, her expression suddenly turned crestfallen.

Grissom came up from behind her. "Everything okay?" He asked concerned.

"My alarm," she answered, clicking the cell shut with a sigh and returning it to the table. "I had forgotten it was Saturday."

"Saturday?" He asked, handing her a half-drunk cup; she looked like she could use it.

Sara took it gratefully and nodded. "Yeah, visiting hours."

She didn't need to name whom she was visiting and Grissom didn't need to ask.

"Great way to spend a Saturday afternoon," she continued with a rueful shake of the head. "You wait for more than two hours for a twenty minute chat."

"You know you don't have to go through all of that. I'm sure that San Francisco PD would extend you every professional courtesy."

"I'm not a professional anymore, Gil," she reluctantly reminded him.

"I could make some calls," he offered.

"Thanks, but I think even after all this time, twenty minutes once every week with my mother is as much as I can handle right now."

"Ok," he agreed.

"This is just something I have to do on my own," she tried to explain.

He understood. "May I drive you?" Grissom asked, pouring himself another cup of coffee from the kitchenette.

"You don't have to do that."

"More?" He asked raising the coffee pot. She shook her head. "I'd like to." Wanting to be entirely sure that she knew he wasn't trying to interfere or inject himself into the situation, he said, "I don't even have to come inside. I'll just drop you off and you can tell me when to come pick you up. Besides, how else are you going to get there?"

"BART," she supplied smiling slightly. "Public transit isn't that bad."

"In this country it usually is."

"True," Sara conceded.

"So me or the bus?" He inquired.

"I don't want to put you through any trouble..."

"It's no trouble. What time do you need to be there?"

"One."

He peered down at his watch. "It's a little after eleven. Why don't we get cleaned up and I can take you to lunch beforehand," he suggested.

"I'd like that."

"Me, too."


	2. Two

**Two**

The San Francisco Crime Lab had undergone some rather impressive renovations since Gil Grissom's last visit. Although he wasn't too surprised that a city that understood the beauty that lay in sunshine and openness would translate such knowledge into the architecture of its government buildings. He knew enough about the use of space and light to appreciate it being put to good use.

He followed a rather quiet, plump, middle-aged woman down the brightly lit corridors, past the various laboratories laid out in neatly organized pods, and into a suite of offices, each of which made Sheriff Burdick's back in Vegas look like a library study carol in comparison.

He hadn't really expected the lab's Assistant Director to be in on a Saturday afternoon, but he had made the call on the off chance that the man was less devoted to his weekend tee-time than Conrad Ecklie, so Grissom was pleasantly surprised to find Jack Peters in and seeing unexpected out-of-town visitors.

The visit, itself, had been not entirely conceived upon a whim. He had figured that while he was in town, it wouldn't hurt to check in with Peters. As he had more than a few hours to kill before he had to pick up Sara, Grissom had hazarded a visit on the hope that it might prove enlightening.

The assistant rapped softly on an open door and called, "Mr. Peters. A Dr. Gil Grissom here to see you."

"Thanks, Mary," came a voice from inside. Mary motioned for Grissom to step inside and closed the door quietly behind him.

"I appreciate you taking the time to see me on short notice," Grissom began.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't have you thrown out of here, Dr. Grissom," the assistant director demanded crossly, not bothering to look up from his files as he did so.

Gil Grissom looked nonplussed for a moment, until Jack Peters peered up at him from his paperwork and flashed him a very broad and welcoming grin before swiftly getting to his feet and shaking Grissom's hand warmly.

When he had last been in San Francisco four years ago, Grissom had taken little notice of the man. The department had called him out here as a special favor to help interpret some rather puzzling insect evidence in a double murder case that had the local investigators baffled. Peters had just recently been promoted to assistant director then and busy with other tasks about the lab so the two men hadn't had a great deal of contact.

Now that he had the opportunity to get a good look at him, Grissom thought that Peters was the sort of man he had imagined as the type that Sara should have ended up with -- one a good decade younger than himself, open, friendly, almost gregarious, well-dressed and even from his masculine point of view, attractive.

While those thoughts should have made him a little jealous of Peters or slightly ill at ease, Grissom also knew that Jack Peters was in no way a rival. If the man had any interest in Sara other that which was purely professional, it was hardly more than marginally platonic. For Sara, as she had once not so eloquently informed him, wasn't a member of his gender of choice.

"You here to abscond with another member of my staff yet again?" Jack Peters asked genially. Grissom shook his head. "It was bad enough that I never could manage to find a way to persuade Sara to come back," he continued to grumble, "but then you had to steal the best DNA tech this side of the Rockies right out from under my nose, too. Although I can't blame Wendy. When the number two lab in the country calls you, only a fool would say no. And Wendy is no fool. You guys in Vegas make us look like small fry here."

"Your solve rate says you are hardly that," Grissom replied.

"She seems to be doing well -- Wendy -- apart from the occasional complaint about having to pull a lot of added overtime and that some guy name Hodges is giving her grief in the lab."

Grissom couldn't help but smile as he said, "Yes, well Dave is quite good at that."

Peters shared his grin for a moment before he looked seriously grave for the first time since Grissom had entered his office. "I haven't heard from Sara since Christmas before last," he said. "We don't correspond that frequently any more so I was surprised even to hear from her in the first place. It was strange, her calling out of the blue like that. But it was even stranger when she told me she was calling to request copies of a case file. Well, that wasn't strange; we get that sort of request all the time. I'm sure you guys do, too. But when I asked her if she wanted me to send the case file to her at LVPD, she said would stop by and pick it up. Only she never showed. I was seriously thinking of calling you to make sure everything was all right."

Grissom sat there silent for a moment.

Of course everything was not all right.

Or at least it hadn't been.

But that was personal -- private.

So instead of commenting, Grissom asked, "What file was she requesting?"

The assistant director rummaged through his filing cabinet for a moment before withdrawing a large sealed manila envelope. "Murder case," he answered, placing the packet on his desk. "_California versus Laura Sidle_."

Peters misread Grissom's expression as one of incredulity. "Yeah, I thought that was strange, too. Sidle's not that common of a last name. So I had a look at the file. Turns out her mother killed her father when she was a kid. I never knew. You?"

Grissom only nodded.

"Harvard never talked about her family. Hell, she never talked about anything personal. Not one word about anybody. Until February of ninety-eight. She came back from the Forensics Academy Conference in town all a whirl about a Dr. Grissom from Las Vegas. I guess some people make a good first impression," Peters smirked.

Grissom smiled at this.

Sara had certainly succeeded in doing so with him. She had been an arresting sight -- so bright and engaging, so full of life and so thirsty to learn anything and everything she could.

He had never encountered anyone like her, before or since.

"If I had known what was going to happen, I would have killed Martin for having insisted that she go to that damn meeting -- continuing education credits and all that bureaucratic nonsense be damned. I knew the minute she said she needed time off to go help a_ friend _out in Vegas there wasn't a chance in hell that she was ever coming back. One of the best CSI this department ever had, even fresh out of grad school.

"Worked her tail off, too. I don't think she would have ever gone home if Martin hadn't told her he'd suspend her if she didn't. Never understood why she would rather work than do anything, even sleep."

Grissom knew.

Sara's almost pathological aversion to sleep stemmed from her long-fought and often losing battle with nightmares. But that, too, was something intensely private and he didn't see the need to enlighten her former colleague.

Peters seemed to have thought he had said too much, because he abruptly changed the subject, saying, "Suspicions of attempting to prompt further staff desertions aside, why are you here Dr. Grissom?"

"Just Grissom, please."

"Well then, _just Grissom_?"

"Actually, I came to see you about Sara."


	3. Three

**Three**

Grissom pulled into the parking lot of the California State Correctional Facilities a little more than an hour later but still a good half-hour before Sara had told him she would likely be ready for him to pick her up.

He had tried to call her to let her know he was on his way, but she hadn't picked up her phone. This did not worry him, as he knew more likely than not that her phone was probably still in custody of visitor security. When he didn't see her in the waiting room, he thought that she was probably still in with her mother.

Although when he went to inquire after her, he was, upon displaying his badge, informed that she had signed out twenty minutes earlier and that no one had seen her since.

At first, Grissom thought of using his phone to track her down again, just as he had done the day before. Instead, he decided to follow his instincts -- and his heart.

Less than five minutes later, he found Sara four blocks away, seated alone on a park bench with her head bowed and her elbows resting heavily on her knees. He knelt down in front of her and gathered up her hands in his.

"Sara?"

She looked up as the sound of her name. When she did, he saw that her face had regained that lost look again.

"Come on," he said and threaded his fingers through hers as he helped her to her feet and back to his car.

Uncharacteristically, he never once let go of her hand, except to climb into the driver's side and start the engine. Once they were headed back to her rental, he resumed his attempt to grant, however slight, a measure of solace through the warm press of his palm against the back of her hand.

Neither one spoke during the entire trip. Nor were words spoken as they trudged up the three flights of stairs to her unit. Once inside, Grissom wordlessly took her coat and hung it along with his in her mostly empty closet before disappearing into the tiny bathroom. He turned the tap as far to the left as it would go before pulling the flow pin to transfer the water to the shower head and tugging the curtain closed to keep the water off the floor.

Sara remained standing were he had left her only a few feet from the door. He quietly enfolded her in a hug and simply held her until he felt some of the stiffness in her spine and shoulders soften slightly. He took up her hand and pressed a kiss her into palm which made her eyes brighten for a moment. She looked as if she wanted so desperately to tell him something, but didn't have the words.

"Later," he whispered, drawing her with him into the bathroom. "Tell me later."


	4. Four

**Four**

"I owe you an explanation," Sara began quietly as she perched herself up on top of her elbows. Grissom rolled onto his side and gave her his full attention. "About today. When I went to see my mother, I didn't ask you to come in with me because of you. I'm not ashamed or embarrassed, not about you or us or any of that. The truth is I lied, Gil -- to her. I told her I was Sara Grissom and that I was an investigator looking into her case."

This admission surprised him. "Why?" He asked.

"Because I thought she might be more honest. That she wouldn't hold things back. That this way I could find out the whole truth," she answered straight forwardly, but then her tone shifted to one more markedly confessional. "Or at least that is what I told myself at the time. But honestly? The last time I saw my mother, I was 13. Even after everything that's happened, I guess there is still a part of me that wants her to be proud of me."

"Why wouldn't she be proud of you?"

"I haven't done a lot lately that I am proud of," she admitted frankly. "I just walked out on you -- on my job -- my life."

"That doesn't negate all the good you've done."

"It does to me." She maintained. "It does to me." Her voice had a sort of hollowness to it when she, without meeting his eyes, asked, "You ever break something?"

While the query seemed rather non sequitur, Grissom answered without question or hesitation, "All the time." Then more lightly, he added, "Particularly when you're around to distract me."

He was disappointed and slightly concerned when his tease didn't earn him even the ghost of a smile.

"What did you do?" Sara asked, but before he had time to answer, she said, "You cleaned it up, right? And either you fixed what was broken or you threw away the pieces."

He nodded.

"But sometimes there are just some things you can't fix."

He knew she wasn't talking about coffee cups or casserole dishes or Erlenmeyer flasks.

"And some things you never quite get over," he supplied.

"Yeah."

"Not just bad things though," Grissom continued gently. "Good things, too," he added.

She looked rather doubtful at this possibility.

"I never could get over you," he admitted, brushing his fingers along the side of her face. "No matter how hard I tried. And that was a very good thing."

That did net him a faint grin.

But her expression was still soft and almost melancholy, when she said, "Sad thing is, more often than not, once someone -- _something_ –" She hurriedly corrected. "Is broken, it never goes back together again. You can't make it whole. It will always be broken.

"So in the end, you cut your losses and you just throw all the pieces away and try and start over again, all the time hoping that maybe this time you will be good enough, worthy enough."

"Sara," he said softly. She shook her head as if to tell him she wanted to finish, to get all the words and the hurt out.

"I tried for so long to do that -- to clean it up -- to try and put the fragments back together into some semblance of a real life. And for a while I really thought I had. But then everything began to unravel all over again and the damn pieces just wouldn't fit..."

"'And all the king's horses and all the king's men...'" Grissom intoned quietly.

She nodded sadly.

"Yeah. And then I didn't know what to do," she replied. "All I knew was that I just couldn't put you through that. I couldn't have you worry.

"We see so much sadness and grief and heartache in what we do. The kits and the latex gloves and the swabs and procedures and policies and science, they help distance us from that horror. But it's still there.

"I didn't want you to have to deal with all that angst and melodrama at home, too. So when I realized that I just couldn't fix it, that I just couldn't put all those pieces back together again, I just threw my whole life away."

They were both silent for a long time. Grissom merely watched her, his worry and anxiety ever growing as Sara's gaze seemed to settle into that unfocused looked of one unable to quite bring themselves to return to the present because it was just too painful.

That she had felt that way, that need, that necessity, broke his heart. But part of him understood. Because he had done the same to her, to the few people he had ever allowed himself to be close to or get close to him. Tried to protect them from himself and the pain he kept inside and never dared to tell another soul about.

That choice had been a completely irrational decision, one without reason or sound judgment behind it, but the desire had been so very real. It had seemed like the right thing to do at the time, the right thing done for right and best of reasons.

In reality, it hadn't been that at all.

That decision had almost cost him Sara.

Now he was hoping that her choice -- and he knew no matter how hard it was accept that fact, it had to be her choice -- wouldn't come at so high a price.

While it grieved him to own it, he knew the world treated those whom it considered broken poorly, as if they were not worthy of being loved by anyone because they were the so-called broken. He knew, too, that it was precisely those people who wanted for love so very badly, but then had no idea what to do once they had actually found it. He knew because he, too, had been broken, was perhaps still broken even now and thought so for so long that he had no right to love or be loved or to feel or hope or dream of a life beyond that of professional achievement and success.

But then the unexpected happened.

Sara happened.

He tried to find the words to explain all of this to her in a way that didn't sound trite or patronizing or condescending, and yet still conveyed the fact that he knew.

And then he remembered...

"One day," he began. "I was playing ball in the backyard with Steven Mardsen from two houses over. My mother always used to tell me to always hit away from the house. But Steve and I got tired of having to chase the ball over the fence. So I hit this line drive right through the dining room window into her china cabinet. Broke two shelves. Including my mother's favorite vase. The one my father had given her for her birthday the year he died. Once we both realized what had happened, Steve took off and I tried to clean up everything before my mother got home. But no matter how or what I tried, there was no way that vase was ever going back together again.

"The minute she walked in the door, my mother knew something was wrong. She always knew. So I fessed up and reluctantly told her the truth. I so was afraid she would be mad or cry, but instead she asked me what I had done with the pieces. When I told her I had thrown them away, she made me get the trashcan. Then very carefully she sorted through the fragments until she found what she was looking for.

"The piece was about the size of a quarter, smooth, sea blue with the hint of white floral embossing. She had it turned into a pendant and wore it up until the day she died.

"I guess the point is that no matter how badly something is broken, there is always something left worth salvaging and often those things end up being the ones we most treasure in the end.

"There is still a lot of your life that's worth keeping, Sara. Just what, is ultimately up to you to decide."

She seemed to be considering his words for a moment.

"You," she finally answered softly. "I'm not sure about much else right now. And I know we can't just pick up as if nothing's happened. But _you_ -- I would still like to be able to have you if it isn't too late."

He smoothed her hair gently and smiled reassuringly. "No, honey, it's not too late," he replied.

When she smiled, a bright, wide smile that revealed the slight gap in her teeth and showed up even in her eyes, he leaned in and covered her mouth with his and kissed her until she whimpered in pleasure.

She took his face in her hands as he pulled away and scrutinized his face.

"We can do this, right?"

"If that's what you want."

"What do you want?" She asked earnestly.

"I already have what I want."

"An irradiated fetal pig named Miss Piggy?" Sara teased.

"What do you have against my pig?" He inquired, almost indignantly although in reality, he was almost overjoyed at the hint of laughter in her voice.

The eager kiss she gave him in reply pleased him even more.

He gently eased her onto her stomach and brushing her still damp hair from the back of her neck, began kissing the skin he exposed there as his hand first traced the hard line of her spine and then the soft and warm curves of her side.

"Gil, please," she breathed breathlessly.

Gil Grissom -- ever a gentleman -- was only most happy to oblige.


	5. Five

**Five**

A sudden, deep and profound sense of serenity settled over Sara as she rested her head against Grissom's chest. She closed her eyes and listened to his heartbeat settle back into an even rhythm and simply relished in the feel of the warmth of his hand along her bare back.

And while that tiny whisper of insecurity still lingered -- the one that told her that this was all too good to be true -- she felt at this moment, safe and snug and at peace.

She sighed at the feel of the fingers of his free hand slide between hers. Grissom was not really a man for hand holding or public displays of affection, but she could distinctly remember him taking her hand earlier that day and never letting go.

The physical contact had been infinitely soothing. Sara always felt drained by her weekly visits to see her mother, but the most recent interview had proven far more taxing.

She was tired of the rouse, tired of patiently edging her way to the truth. And just tired.

And cold.

The mere return of Grissom's presence had helped warm her. But then he had taken her hand and brought her home. There had been so much she wanted to tell him, so much she had wanted to say, but she couldn't find the words and he seemed to understand this.

He simply and quietly took her into the bathroom and proceeded to undress her and then himself. The steady spray of hot water had eased some of the stiffness, but it had been those hands that finally relaxed her. He had taken his time, slowly working the shampoo into her hair, before guiding her head under the water to wash it away. He had forgone the use of a washcloth or sponge and instead had chosen to lather up his hands, the better to ease the tightness in her shoulders. Once they were both rinsed and dried, he had guided her to bed. With him beside her, her hand securely enclosed within his again, she had whispered a faint _Thank You_ before finally drifting off.

His hands still warmed her now.

"What are you thinking about?" He asked drowsily. Seven in the evening was usually well past his bedtime and their afternoon nap hadn't lasted nearly long enough.

"You'll just laugh..."

He began to massage her neck in a way that almost always got him whatever he asked for.

"Try me."

She paused, enjoying his touch too much to want to talk at this particular moment.

"Sara --" he urged gently.

She reluctantly disengaged herself from his grasp and propped herself on one elbow to peer down at him.

"Your hands--" She whispered.

"Hmm?"

"I was thinking about how I used to fantasize about your hands," she replied.

Grissom gave her his trademark quizzical expression -- the one where one eyebrow rose higher than the other -- a look that always made Sara want to grin. So she did. The slight smile widened and then turned into an amused purse of the lips that barely contained a laugh as she shook her head and sighed, "Get your mind out of the gutter, Gil."

He smirked as if to retort, _Who me?_

"Yes, you," she replied, nudging him playfully.

"What?" He queried in wounded tone she knew better than to take seriously.

"Oh, don't play innocent, _Gilbert_."

"I'm not. Playing at least. In this, I am totally innocent, my dear."

Sara snickered, but made no comment. She sat there for a moment trying not to succumb, but his amusement was catching.

"Well?" He asked when her giggling finally died away.

"Well what?"

"I ask you what you're thinking and you tell me that you used to fantasize about my hands."

"Yes," Sara said simply.

"And then you wrongfully accuse me of having inappropriate thoughts about said response..." Her lips moved to protest the _wrongfully_ part of that assessment, but Grissom continued, "And that's it?"

"It's not what you think..." she replied.

"Since when have you taken up mind-reading, dear? You're stalling..."

_True._

She collected one of his hands in hers and turned it over and over in effort to examine it closely.

"I suppose it wasn't _fantasizing_ precisely," she eventually answered. "I guess I was curious."

"About?"

"What they would feel like."

His eyebrow went up again at that.

"_Gutter_," she warned. He made no reply but to feign a blameless look. She blithely shook her head, but then explained, "You are always so precise with your hands. There is always a purpose to all of their actions. And yet there was this gentleness about them -- and you." Sara began to trace each of his fingers lightly. "Most of the time, we feel so little through our gloves. You can't tell much from the occasional brush. So I was curious."

"And?" He prompted.

"It turned out to be better than I imagined."

They shared a smile. Grissom leaned in to kiss her, but then his stomach rumbled, causing them both to laugh.

"So is the state of your cupboards as bad as I imagine it is?" He asked.

"Probably worse," Sara admitted.

Grissom shook his head sadly. "Whatever am I to do with you?"

"I could say the same," she countered.

"True."

"I suppose we'll both figure something out at some point."

"One can hope."

"There is that."

_Series Continued in "Engaging Conversations."_


End file.
